


had we but world enough, and time

by SugarFey



Series: The Sky Is Here For Both Of Us [6]
Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: F/F, No Book Spoilers, season 4 speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 02:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20107336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey
Summary: Drummer kisses her, fiercely, in case this is the last time.Naomi visits Drummer before departing for Ilus.Season Four speculation.





	had we but world enough, and time

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm back. I knew I couldn't stay away from these two for long. ;)
> 
> This fic is an extension of a quick prompt fic I wrote on my tumblr a while ago. I was inspired to write more after I saw the trailers for Season Four. December cannot come soon enough!
> 
> I have not read the books, though I have read the wiki. Therefore this fic does not include any potential S4 spoilers beyond what we see in the trailers and the brief clip of the Roci landing. 
> 
> Note: While this fic does function as a sort of epilogue to my series 'The Sky Is Here For Both Of Us,' it can be read as a standalone. Warnings for past trauma and recovery.

“We can still go out,” Naomi protests. A protest which is immediately undercut by the loud, trumpeting sneeze which erupts from her, and punctuated by a succession of coughs.

“No,” Drummer insists. 

“I’m fine.” _Sneeze._

Drummer glances over her coughing girlfriend with frustration. She has known this was coming ever since Naomi left the _Roci_ with a tissue clutched in her hand. Apparently the entire crew came down with head colds after stopping for fuel on Callisto. Holden had shot Drummer an apologetic look when Naomi walked over to her. This arrangement between the three of them is still new, and Holden has made a point not to interfere with Drummer and Naomi’s time together, especially now. Even so, Drummer can’t help feeling as though he might be more equipped to deal with this than she is, and that sets her teeth on edge. This is not how she wants to be thinking right before the _Roci _leaves for Ilus. 

“You are not fine. You are not breathing. Besides, you’ll spread it to everyone in the club and then those idiots will spread it all over the station.” _I will take care of Naomi if it’s the last thing I do._

Naomi settles down on Drummer’s bunk, finally giving in. “Your bedside manner is not your strong suit.” 

“Good thing I’m not paid for that, then.” She waits until Naomi has swung her legs up onto the bunk, then moves over to the counter where she keeps her kettle. Brewing water in her own quarters is one of the few luxuries she allows herself as captain of the newly renamed Medina Station. “I’ll make you some tea.”

A part of her is glad they won’t be going dancing. It’s been nearly eight months since her injury and her spinal implants have fully healed, so she is finally starting to move more freely. But there are still physio appointments and check ups and mandatory sessions with the trauma therapist, and her body does not quite feel like hers yet. It was her therapist’s suggestion to start resuming social activities, and while Drummer appreciates the importance, she will grab at any excuse not to have people staring at her. 

Naomi settles a pillow behind her back and pulls up the blanket. “Has anyone ever told you you’re cute when you’re worried about someone?” 

Drummer glowers. “Shut up and drink your tea.” Fact is, people have called Drummer ‘cute.’ Back when she was fourteen and all knees and elbows and big, dark eyes in a hungry face. When she was small and shy and too young to be out on the docks alone, and she still introduced herself as ‘Camina.’ That was when she started wearing eyeliner. 

At least the word sounds different in Naomi’s voice. 

Naomi rolls her eyes at her, but she takes a sip from the bulb Drummer offers her. “Huh,” she says after a moment. “This tea’s pretty good.”

“New company based on the station. They grow their own herbs for it in the hydroponic bays. They were giving out samples.” She does not mention that after she tried the sample herself, she went out and bought a small supply in case Naomi would like it. 

Naomi sips the tea in silence for a while, until another coughing fit forces her to hand the bulb back to Drummer. “So, are you going to stay by my bedside and mop my fevered brow?” 

“If that’s what it takes to keep you in bed.” 

“Oh, I could think of a few more things to keep me in bed—“ Naomi starts, only to be interrupted by another loud sneeze. Drummer wordlessly hands her a tissue. 

“Ugh.” Naomi grimaces and throws the used tissue into the disposal hatch in the wall next to the bunk. She moves the pillow and slides down into a lying position, as if accepting her fate. “Well, I haven’t seen the new season of _Sanctuary Moon._” 

Drummer snorts, but she pulls up the first episode on the big screen and sits down on the floor so that her head is in line with Naomi’s pillow. She does not see the appeal in serialised dramas herself, but this one is particularly popular. Some of the communications techs were arguing about it. The season finale seems to have caused quite a stir among the fan base. 

Naomi snuggles down into the pillow as the credits flicker across the screen, and Drummer leans over to press her lips against Naomi’s warm forehead. She opens her latest reading material on her hand terminal. _Interplanetary Politics, Volume 2: From the Colonisation of Mars to the Founding of Ceres Station. _

“Love you,” Naomi murmurs, as if it is nothing at all. 

Drummer’s throat clenches. “Love you, too.” 

She spends the next couple of hours reading and keeping up with work notifications while Naomi watches the screen. Eventually Naomi drifts off, her hand loosely clutching the pillow by her head, her breath escaping in soft, stuffy snores. Drummer watches the gentle rise and fall of Naomi’s chest, committing every angle and curve of her to memory. Soon, Naomi will be further away than she has ever been, taking her first steps onto some planet out in the vast, empty blackness of space. 

Drummer takes a breath and lets it out slowly, hoping this will calm the tightness in her chest. Her quarters feel too compressed and stifling, and she grips on to the rail by the bed when she scrambles to her feet. The room sways and she sinks hard into her magnetised boots. Did the station lose inertia? She closes her eyes to take account of her body. There, the distinct heaviness of gravity pressing on her spine, drawing on her knees, weighing down her arms. She flexes her fingers, focusing on each bend and crack of her knuckles. They are still spinning. She is still spinning. 

She brushes off her uniform as though this will brush the sense back into her head. Naomi should rest, but Drummer is not on shift for another seven hours. She might as well take the opportunity to go to the med bay and pick up an immunity booster shot for herself and some antivirals for Naomi. She feels her way out the door, away from the looming walls. 

On her way back from the med bay, she stops by one of the nicer eateries and orders two containers of steaming mushroom noodles with black bean sauce. There are fancier restaurants springing up on this deck; the kind which sell soups made with vat-grown beef and chicken, but mushroom noodles have always been her comfort food. This eatery uses a good amount of spice and even sprinkles some station grown greens and spring onions over the top, just the way she likes it. It reminds her of the food she used to order on Tycho. Perhaps this is the closest she will ever feel to nostalgia for home cooking. 

She enters her quarters and Naomi stirs just as the doors slide shut. “Hey,” she murmurs, her eyes lighting up as she spots the containers in Drummer’s hands. “You brought food.”

Drummer tosses her the antiviral shot. “You know I bring you nothing but the best.” She sets the containers onto the tiny table and pulls it and a chair up to the bed. Naomi perches on the edge of the bed and prises the lid off one of the containers. Warm steam rises into the air, curling in lazy circles. 

“Mushroom noodles,” Naomi sighs happily. “I haven’t had this in ages.” 

They chew their food in their usual companionable silence. It occurs to Drummer that she should make this special somehow, that their last meal together for god knows how long should be fancier than eating out of metal containers in her quarters. But they have never been one for fancy dinners, so why start now? Then again, maybe Naomi was expecting something special. Maybe that’s why she tried to insist on going out dancing. Drummer shoves a forkful of noodles into her mouth, angry at her own stupidity. 

“Camina.” Naomi covers Drummer’s hand with her own as if sensing Drummer’s mood. “Thank you for the food.” 

They finish their meal and Drummer slides the containers into the recycling chute. Naomi shifts over on the bed to make room, and a small smile plays on Drummer’s lips at the sight of it. Her belly is full with good food and she is about to slide into her own bed next to the woman she loves. She will never take that for granted. 

She leaves her uniform, bra and leggings neatly secured in the storage locker, removes her makeup and shakes her hair out of her braid. Even after they started sleeping together, it took ages before she was comfortable being with Naomi like this. She has thought of the kohl on her eyes as war paint for so long, she almost forgot it started out as armour. Naomi sees her without all the grit and rage she shows to the rest of the world, and she welcomes Drummer with open arms.

* * *

She stirs awake four hours later, Naomi’s arm slung loosely over her hip. Drummer resists the urge to lean back into Naomi’s warm body, to lace their fingers together and take comfort in their closeness. She has a little under an hour before her shift starts, and the _Rocinante _is due to undock in three. Drummer forces herself to sit up, taking care not to wake Naomi. The floor feels cool and smooth beneath her feet. 

She’s had to heavily adjust her pre-shift workout routine since the surgery. The physios and doctors insisted that regular exercise was essential, but her usual penchant for inverse crunches is out of the question. She settles for some push ups instead. Her spine protests against the movement, giving her a sickening awareness of each vertebrae, each contraction of her muscles. Drummer had never given her body much thought before the injury. It was a tool which allowed her to work and fight and fuck. She maintained it like she would her gun or her kit. Now every pull and twinge is a niggling reminder of how close she came to losing her life. 

Her workout time is embarrassingly short, yet even now it leaves her gasping for air. She stands and rests her fists on her knees, waiting to come back to herself. At least she has some extra time to shower. Sighing, she tucks up her hair and lets her clothes fall to the floor. The shower in her bathroom is a lukewarm trickle, and she lifts her face up to the water, letting it roll over her nose and chin. 

Shower finished, she begins dressing for her shift. Her uniform still has that crisp, stiff newness to it when Drummer fishes it out of the storage locker. Fred sent over her personal possessions from Tycho once Medina was established, yet her locker is only half full. There hadn’t been much in the sealed container once she’d opened it. Workout gear, a spare Tycho jumpsuit, some civilian clothes she never wears and a necklace of blue beads which used to belong to her mother. Drummer isn’t one for sentiment and even less for jewellery, but she keeps the necklace all the same.

The Tycho jumpsuits have been lying folded and creased in the bottom of the storage locker since she put on her official OPA uniform. The woman who came to fit her for it described the fabric as ‘forest green.’ As if anyone in the Belt knows what a fucking forest looks like. 

She lifts a hank of hair and starts to work some dry shampoo through the strands. Technically the shower in her quarters has a larger water allocation than the rest of the station so she could have washed her hair while she was under it, but she never uses her full water ration. It’s a habit as much as it is principle.

There is a rustle behind her, and Drummer turns to see Naomi sitting up in bed, yawning. She gives Drummer a sleepy smile. “Want me to braid your hair?” 

Of all the things women have offered to do for her in bed, that has to be the most unexpected one. “Uh,” Drummer manages, not sure how to respond. Her hair hangs heavy against the back of her neck. Fuck it. First time for everything. “Sure.” 

Naomi beckons her forward and Drummer slides down onto the floor to sit back against Naomi’s knees. Naomi hums softly as she sinks her fingers into Drummer’s hair to separate it into sections.

Drummer’s mother had taught her how to braid when she was a kid, and ever since it’s been a practical way to keep her hair out of her face without having to cut it short. A few pins are all it takes to secure it for zero-G. She can’t remember the last time another person braided her hair. Her eyes flutter closed under the deft work of Naomi’s fingers. 

“I see Ashford is still on the crew manifest,” Naomi remarks lightly. 

Drummer leans back against Naomi’s legs, eyes still closed. Who knew having another person braid your hair could be so soothing. “Bastard nearly kills us all and still pulls some strings to stay here.” 

“Hmm.” Naomi lifts the loose hair off Drummer’s neck to fold it into the braid. “How are things going with him around?” 

It’s amazing, the way Naomi can make her want to open up with so little effort. “S’okay. Still giving me advice, but he seems less keen on turning my own crew against me now.” Drummer allows herself a bitter little chuckle. “I think he fancies himself a queen maker.” 

“As long as he remembers you’re the queen.” Naomi leans down and gives Drummer’s cheek a quick kiss. “There. All done.” 

“Thanks.” Drummer reaches up to stroke the inside of Naomi’s wrist. “How are you feeling?” 

“Better. The antivirals have helped.” Naomi tugs gently at Drummer’s hand until Drummer lifts herself up onto the edge of the bed next to Naomi. Naomi’s lips part as if she is about to speak, then close again. Her eyes drop to the mattress and Drummer is about to ask if Naomi is really feeling better, but then Naomi looks up again as if she has made a decision. “How’s your therapy going?” 

Drummer affects a shrug. “The usual. Not much to say, really.” 

Naomi’s look of scepticism speaks volumes. She is always good at seeing through any bravado Drummer tries to put up. It’s something Drummer loves about her, even if it is incredibly frustrating. She sighs. “I might have missed a session.” 

Naomi hones in immediately. “Missed _a _session?” 

Now it’s Drummer’s turn to look down at the mattress. “Okay, two. Maybe three.”

“You just so happened to miss three sessions of trauma therapy? Drummer…”

Trust Naomi to make her feel like a disobedient child. “Things kept coming up,” she mutters, knowing how flimsy it sounds. 

“Bullshit,” Naomi snaps. “If anything needed your immediate attention, you could have rescheduled the appointment. You’re the captain of this ship, if you want a session, your therapist will make time.”

Drummer picks at her loose thread on her sleeve. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“Camina,” Naomi says in that tone which will not tolerate any opposition, “get your arse to therapy. You know how important it is. I don’t want to spend my time in Ilus worrying about you having no support here.” 

Drummer seizes the opportunity to deflect. “How’s the training going?”

She can tell by Naomi’s expression that she isn’t fooled for a moment, but she seems to relent. “I think it’s going well enough. You should feel my biceps.” 

Drummer reaches out and gives Naomi’s arm a cursory squeeze. “Nice,” she remarks, but in truth, the new bulge of Naomi’s muscles only serves as a harsh reminder of her imminent departure into the unknown. “How much cardio have you been doing?”

“Several hours a shift. The boys must be sick of me being sweaty and gross all the time.” 

Drummer’s jaw tightens at the mention of the _Roci _crew, but if Naomi notices, she’s tactful enough not to mention it. “And the meds?” Drummer asks instead.

Naomi rolls her neck to stretch it out. “Feels a bit weird sometimes,” she admits. “I get dizzy now and then. We’ll see how it goes once we hit the planet.”

Drummer can tell Naomi is downplaying everything, but she swallows down her rising frustration. After all, she copes with things in a similar way.

She can’t help thinking of her own training, of the hours spent doing something as fucking basic as learning to walk again. Even after the surgery it took weeks before she could take more than a few steps unaided. All the while she ran her crew and supervised negotiations, argued with representatives from Earth and Mars and tried her best not to let Ashford or any of his cronies know she was in pain. The thought of Naomi being weighed down by gravity on a distant planet is excruciating. 

“You think this is worth it?” she says, and tries not to let her voice betray her. 

Naomi’s eyes soften, as if she knows exactly what Drummer is thinking. Slowly, she reaches forward to cup Drummer’s cheek, and Drummer leans into her, trying to ground herself in Naomi’s warmth. “I grew up believing I would never see a sky over my head,” Naomi says. “I want to look up and see clouds above me, for once in my life. Do you understand that?”

Drummer wishes she could. In truth, she can’t even begin to picture a cloudy sky. Maybe she lacks Naomi’s imagination, maybe it’s simple self-preservation. The head doctor had been brutally honest with her. The implants would not be enough to protect her spine in one-G. Any landing planetside is out of the question. Drummer isn’t too fussed about it; she has never felt a particular longing for the thought of ground beneath her feet. Some Belters may wax lyrical about solid earth and open heavens, but Drummer has always felt comfortable in space. She could not imagine trusting your life to an atmosphere you cannot build or control yourself. 

Naomi could always see further than she does. 

She takes Naomi’s hand, running her thumb over the firm calluses of Naomi’s palm. She has always liked Naomi’s hands. The calluses grabbed her attention back when she first clasped Naomi’s fingers to help her to her feet when they played handball, millions of miles and a lifetime ago. Naomi has worked all her life, just as she has, and Naomi deserves to chase the horizon if that is what she wishes. 

Drummer plasters a grin on her face and aims for a joking tone. “Will you miss me?” 

Naomi does not rise to the humour, because she is smarter than that. “Of course I—Camina…” She shifts forward and rests her forehead against Drummer’s own. “I love you. And I will always come back to you. I promise.”

_Don’t. _The word lies unsaid on her tongue. _Don’t make promises you may not be able to keep. _She does not ask Naomi to stay, because their relationship relies on Drummer letting Naomi go. 

When she was a child, she read books which described love as an ocean or a flower or some other Earth-based metaphor to which she could not relate. She wishes she could tell those writers how wrong they were. Love is a rail gun ripping through a ship’s hull, leaving her raw and exposed to the vacuum of space. It tears the air from her lungs. 

She hates the way her voice shakes. “Tell Holden that if anything happens to you, I will space him myself.” 

Naomi laughs as she strokes Drummer’s cheek. “Don’t worry, he already knows.” 

Naomi’s hand terminal chirps and Drummer cannot help the flinch. Naomi lifts the terminal to take a glance, then turns back to Drummer with a sad smile. “I have to go.”

Drummer kisses her, fiercely, in case this is the last time. “I’ll be here.” She will always be here. She will be here, and she will wait, and she will fall in love with Naomi Nagata all over again, every time. “I’ll be here when you get back.”


End file.
